


Twenty Years Gone

by ButterflyGhost, happy29



Category: due South
Genre: Friendship, Pre Canon, back story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:06:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost, https://archiveofourown.org/users/happy29/pseuds/happy29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So... Happy and Butterfly were talking about first days on the job, and how much the Rays have in common, and... this happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Years Gone

 

Back when everyone except Stella called Ray ‘Stan’ he had – well not the job from hell, because his Dad had that one – but still, his first back breaking exhausting ‘ _why the fuck do I get out of bed in the morning’_ job. At first he thought, ‘huh, cool, I get to work with big trucks all day.’ Showed how much he knew. He’d had some sort of daydream that if he showed up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed every day he’d be bumped up the ranks and allowed to play with the engines.

 

Nope – not that kinda truck factory. His Dad did try to warn him – but since when do sons listen to their Dads?

 

“Look, Stan, this isn’t like school. You’ve got to do what you’re told.”

 

“Yeah, Dad, I know.”

 

“I know you know. I’m just telling you, these guys order you about, none of your lip. We need the money.”

 

They did too – though Mum and Dad were being very nice about it. They weren’t taking every penny, though he knew they could have done, and he wouldn’t have complained. Dad was even buying parts for the big old car they were working on. But they did need the money – Babunia’s operation had cost an arm and a leg. Ray felt a lump in his throat – after all that, his poor old grandmother was still likely to die. He’d always thought Stanislaw was worse than Stan, or Stanley. If she didn’t wake up soon, nobody was ever going to call him Stanislaw again.

 

“You know, when I finish college,” he promised his father, “I’ll get a good job, with decent insurance, and we won’t have to go through this kinda thing again.”

 

“Yeah, well. Get through college first.” His Dad sounded gruff, and unconvinced, but he was proud of his son’s ambition.

 

So, Ray went off to work for his first day at ‘Utilamaster,’ full of excitement that he was a man now, helping his family, that he’d have some cash of his own to take Stella out for once, and that he’d impress the foreman so he could graduate up the line and mess with the engines.

 

Yeah, well. THAT was a crock.

~*~

 

At first, nobody spoke to him, except to yell, or call him stupid, or tell him to scrub the damn toilet. It snowed, and every time a truck was driven inside it brought a rush of cold air and fresh sludge. Great... his left work boot had a hole in it. Somehow he managed to be hot from all the running around, and cold from the snow, and... was that water creeping up his pant leg? Great, on top of wet socks, his jeans were getting wet. Brought back memories of...

 

_Let’s not go there, Kowalski. This is just… miserable._

 

And... what the hell was he meant to be doing? Who was in charge here? The guy who was meant to be telling him what to do seemed to think he was gonna steal his job, so he was no help.  
  
 _So, what the hell is my job?_ He'd been told about ten different things so far and...

 

He made the mistake of asking.

 

“You do what I tell you,” the foreman said, pointing his chubby finger in Ray’s face, “when I tell you.”

 

Ray felt his breath catch in his chest – almost like he’d been running hard, he was so shocked and angry. For a minute he thought of grabbing the bastard’s finger and breaking it like a twig, then he thought of Mum, pegging the tea bags on a string by the kitchen window, to save her money. Nobody else drank tea, and she wouldn’t justify the expense.

 

“Yes, Sir,” he said, “sorry, Sir.” The foreman nodded, and waddled off. Behind him, Ray heard a dry voice add –

 

“And three bags full, Sir.”

 

Ray turned, and there was a lad about his age, with longish black hair and very green eyes, slouching against the back of a lorry, drinking coffee out of a paper cup. He had an insolent expression on his face.

 

“Hey, what did you expect me to say?”

 

“It’s not you I’m cross with,” the other kid said. “It’s that fucker.” He turned his head and glared daggers at the man’s back. “Give a little man a little power, and he struts all over the place like he’s God.”

 

Ray paused. “You’re weird,” he said.

 

“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”

 

“No, I mean – I don’t mean bad weird. I just mean –”

 

“What?”

 

“Kids don’t talk like you,” he blurted out. “You talk like an old man.” He blushed. _Damn, where did that come from?_

 

The dark haired kid laughed. “That’s funny. ‘Old Man.’ That’s what my surname means. What about yours?”

 

“Smith,” Ray said.

 

“Oh, that’s just boring.” The kid shrugged. “Raimondo. You?”

 

 _Oh fuck – this kid’s got an attitude. If I tell him I’m Ray too, he’ll just get pissed off. And if I tell him my name actually means Smith in Polish he might..._ well, for all Ray knew the kid was racist. A lot of ‘em were. The gang lines were pretty much drawn up along ethnicity, and with hair like that, and a name like ‘Raimondo,’ this kid had to be Italian.

 

“Uhm, Stan.”

 

“Well, Stan Smith. Nice to meet you. And now I’m off my five minute coffee break –” he crumpled up his paper cup – “so I got to go back and waste another four hours of my life.”

 

Raimondo turned and walked over to the back end of the ugliest lorry Ray had ever seen, got into position opposite another man. The two squatted, lifted – _what the fuck is that?_

 

Chubby Foreman got back in his face again. “You,” he said, “clean the toilets.”

 

So Ray cleaned the toilets, swept the floors, and discovered (when they finally let him near a truck) that the holes for the door handles hadn’t been drilled in right.

 

“You gotta take everything off,” Raimondo’s voice broke in. “Here, like this.” Rapidly he demonstrated. “And then you gotta redrill all four holes.” He shook his head. “Not that you got time...”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Look, the little king’s off checking whether his horse came in, I’ll help. He comes back, I’ll have to disappear.”

 

Just as well Raimondo helped - whatever jackass fucked up the drilling messed up the other door too.

 

“You know how to do it now,” Raimondo said. “Next time I’m stuck with something, I’ll holler for you.”

 

“Hey, thanks buddy.”

 

Raimondo made a mock salute, and went back to whatever job it was he was supposed to have been doing.

 

If it hadn’t been for the weird Italian kid, and the surprise arrival at the factory gate, the entire day would have been a bust.

 

“Stella!”

 

She was wrapped up in her mother’s furs. None of that animal rights crap for Stella - her boyfriend’s father worked in a meat factory, so she was anti-vegetarian to show solidarity with the Kowalskis of the world. She was pink-cheeked and smiling, and driving her Daddy’s car.

 

“You weren’t expecting me, were you?”

 

“Uhm... no.”

 

She stepped up grinning. “I thought I’d give you a lift, instead of you having to take the bus.”

 

Well, after that he just had to kiss her, even if he was muddy, and covered in grease. And, okay, a little part of him was smug that the other guys got to see him leaving with this beautiful girl... but mainly he was just glad that he was with Stella. She could have been wearing rags, and been beautiful. And it made this miserable day’s work feel - sweeter. Like he’d been working for her.

 

Next day he woke up so bone weary that, if he hadn’t loved his parents and Babunia, he’d have stayed in bed for a week. He walked downstairs like a zombie - and then it was worth it, to see his father’s face.

 

“Good morning, Son.”

 

“Morning.... aaaaaaaawgh.”

 

“That’s a big yawn. Coffee?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Ray sat and ate a man’s breakfast with his father. He realised that if he had stayed in bed his parents would never have said a word - and he would have always been ashamed.

 

Ray and his father sat in companionable silence, over offcuts of bacon fried with mushrooms, slices of apple and bread. Then, they walked in companionable silence to the corner of the road, where Dad turned left to the meat packing plant, and Ray turned right to the bus stop.

 

That weird Italian kid was already there. Actually seemed pleased to see him.

 

“Hey, Stan! Wasn’t sure you’d be back.”

 

“What, you thought I couldn’t hack it?”

 

“Nah, not that. Just - first day’s always the roughest. It’ll get better.”

 

“Yeah? Cause my hands are killing me.”

 

“You mighn’t be able to hold your toothbrush for a week.” Raimondo rolled his eyes. “Shoulda heard my Ma. _‘Caro mio,_ you have to brush your teeth! I didn’t break my heart bringing you into the world for your teeth to fall out.’ It’s like, she only gave birth to me for my fine set of gnashers.” He touched his nose and laughed. “Cause it’s sure not my schnoz.”

 

Now that Ray thought of it, the other kid did have a big nose.

 

“It’ll get easier,” Raimondo grinned. “Promise.”

 

“It had better,” Ray said, feeling guilty for staring at his friend’s big schnoz.

 

“Just wait till you get your first paycheck. That’ll make you feel better.” Raimondo grinned. “Probably saving up to get your girl a ring?”

 

“Hey!” Ray blushed. “I want a proper job first.”

 

Raimondo slapped his shoulder. “True love then.”

 

“Shurrup. You say anything about the Stella, I’ll... I’ll do something.”

 

“Hey, don’t worry. I don’t trash talk girls.” He looked over his shoulder. “Shit,” he added, “Higson’s landed. We need to go see what he’s got for us today.”

~*~

 

Three days in, and Ray wanted to kill someone. Possibly himself. Though he’d never find the damn tools to do it.

 

“How come every fucking thing I touch shorts out on me, or I need to jiggle the cord just to make it run right? Have I got, like, a polty... poltoo... ghost or something?”

 

“Nah.” Raimondo hunkered down next to him, and glowered at the faulty drill. “What you got is shitty coworkers. You’re the new guy in, so you get the shit tools.”

 

“You can’t have been here much longer than me, how come they don’t give you crap?”

 

“I’ve been here long enough.”

 

“You’re, what... sixteen? Seventeen? Same age as me, surely.”

 

“As far as they’re concerned, I’m eighteen, and I’ve been here over a year.” For a moment Raimondo forgot to be cool. “And if you tell anyone how old I really am, I’ll shove this broken drill up your ass and get it working.”

 

Stan cackled. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” _Weird though..._. “But how come you’re not at school? I mean, I’m just here for  
holidays.”

 

“I am at school,” Raimondo said, sourly. “I just hate it. Besides, this is just part time, usually.”

 

“You’re kidding.”

 

“It’s only three nights a week in term time.”

 

“I bet you fall asleep in class.”

 

“Isn’t that what math lessons are for?”

 

“I dunno. My math teacher is always telling me ‘you never know when your life might depend on a mathematical principle.”

 

“Yeah, well. If my life depended on it, I’d learn math. For now, I’m sleeping.” Raimondo suddenly chuckled. “You see, Stan... round here, two and two don’t equal four. You have to add eighteen first, and then you get twenty.”

 

“Uhm... okay.” For all Ray knew, that was actually gospel round here. He’d already learned that not every identical white truck was actually an identical white truck... Raimondo was still speaking.

 

“But then,” the guy was saying, “you have to multiply by one. And here’s the tricky part, so -” he leant forward, urgently, and stared right into Ray’s face. He dropped his voice. “Pay attention.”

 

“Uhm... yeah?”

 

“Divide by six and you get the number of trucks you’re supposed to do a day, subtract ten because the bosses screwed up the first number they gave you, multiply that by zero, and that’s how much sense this whole damn place makes.”

 

Ray blinked hard, trying to wrap his head around it...

 

“Doesn’t that all equal zero? We just did a whole bunch of damn math to get zero?”

 

“Now you’re learning.”  Raimondo looked smug. “That’s Utilamath.”

 

"And this 'Utilamath'... does it always work the same?"

 

"Now, wouldn't it be nice if it did? No, you see, every day, the equation is different."

 

"Great... that makes no sense."

 

"See you _are_ learning... it never makes sense when you try to make it."

~*~

 

Five days in, Ray had figured out the fine art of not making eye contact with the complete jackasses who thought they were his boss but weren’t. And Raimondo, quietly, kept an eye on him. Probably because they were both poor kids working for their families - but it was nice. Even though Ray realised he knew nothing about his new friend.

 

Not that Raimondo didn’t talk. He talked a blue streak when they were working together - Just, he never said anything about himself.

 

They were on a break, and Ray was sneaking a smoke. Normally Raimondo would be lecturing him about how disgusting that was - _Jeez, he sounds like my mother -_ but this time he was just sitting on the edge of the tatty formica table, staring into his paper cup. For a moment Ray thought - _he looks like a beggar waiting for a cent._ Which was a stupid thought. He looked for a moment too long, and Raimondo was staring back.

 

“What?” he snapped. “What are you staring at?”

 

“Nothing,” Ray stuttered. He’d just realised that Raimondo had a black eye. They’d been working their balls off all morning, and he’d not been paying attention to anything much, other than not dropping the damn winch. Somehow he’d not even noticed that his friend had shut up, for once. “You... uhm. You get in a fight or something?”

 

Raimondo shook his head. “Nah, round here it’s easy enough to bash yourself up.” He laughed. "Listen, take it from one who knows. Do not, I repeat, do not throw your head out the back of the truck looking for anything. Because I guarantee you’ll crack your head on that centre bar.” Raimondo rubbed his head ruefully. “And I guarantee it’ll hurt like a bastard.”

 

“That what happened?”

 

“Yeah.” Raimondo lied with aplomb, but Ray knew a lie when he saw one. For a start, that wouldn’t explain the finger bruises on Raimondo’s throat. Someone had throttled him but good.

 

“Yeah, bash your head on one of ‘em bars, and everything’ll fade to black. You think this is something,” he pointed at his black eye. “You’ll be sprouting your own shiner in a day or so.”

 

“Okay,” Being an idiot, Ray pushed it. “But I don’t see how you got a bruise shaped like that from a central pole...”

 

The laughter went out of Raimondo’s voice and he went bitter. “I walked into a door.”

 

Ray didn’t say anything... it was always possible. He’d nearly taken his knuckle out three days in before Raimondo grabbed the faulty drill off him.

 

Still... He watched his friend carefully for the rest of the day, and damn if the kid hadn’t lost his lippy attitude.

 

“You: skinny bastard.”

 

Ray and Raimondo turned at the same time.

 

“Skinny Wop, not skinny Polack.”

 

Raimondo sneered, as only he could, but he didn’t say anything.

 

“The boss wants you. Don’t be long, those liftgates won’t install themselves.”

 

Raimondo ambled away, as insolently he could, but didn’t say anything. Ray watched him, concerned.

 

“You. While you’re waiting for your boyfriend, check your build orders. When you’ve got the parts for the  liftgates assembled, we need you to fix your damn paperwork. I’ve told you a hundred times, you’re meant to mark it with red tape, not green tape. What, are you colourblind?”

 

“No, Sir.”

 

“No? Just illiterate? Stupid?” He shook his head, and walked off. “Fucking idiots I have to work with...”

 

Ray glared at his back, then, just to relieve tension, pushed his tongue out. He sighed, and started assembling the bolts and washers, filled out the warranty card info, copied out the serial number... Raimondo hadn’t come back yet. Installing a liftgate was a two man job. He needed to find some other unwilling victim to drag into this.

 

“Hey, Murphy!” The big man took pity on him, and came to help.

 

By the time they’d finished, Raimondo came out, looked even more miserable than when he’d went in.

 

“You’ve not been laid off or something?”

 

“No,” he said, tersely. “I gotta go to the hospital. My Ma’s sick.”

 

“Oh - shit. It’s not serious, is it?”

 

“She’s in the hospital, what do you think?”

 

“Sorry, sorry... uhm. Can I help?”

 

“Just... try not to get fired. I’m gonna want a friendly face when I get back. See you tomorrow. I hope.”

 

“I’m gonna be at the hospital later myself,” Ray admitted. My Babunia’s ill too.”

 

“Babbuny what now?”

 

“Uhm... Granny.”

 

“Ah.” Raimondo managed to smile. “My Granny’s a ‘Nonna.’” He shoved his hands in his pockets, and started to walk. “See you round then.”

 

They didn’t see each other round the hospital, and they didn’t see each other for the next five days. 

 

Ray lost his days off, got called in to make up for missing workers. Raimondo was one of the missing. Some of the nastier gossip mongers sneered about him being fired until the day he walked back in.

 

“Jesus Christ, Raimondo, what happened?”

 

The  kid was black and blue. He flung such a fierce and hate-filled look that Ray took a step back.

 

“None of your fucking business.”

 

And that was it. They didn’t talk again. Not until the last day.

 

By then the bruises had become yellow, and Raimondo looked more like the cheeky lad Ray had first met when he walked into this place.

 

“So,” Ray said, carefully. “School tomorrow.” They went to different schools - which Ray was kinda pissed about. “You ready?”

 

“Yeah,” Raimondo said, and smiled. “Get to see Irene.”

 

“Irene?”

 

“Yeah.” His smile faded. “My girl.”

 

Maybe that was why Raimondo had been in a fight.

 

“Well, maybe I’ll see you next holiday’s, if you’re still working here.”

 

“I’ll still be here. They’ll bury me there,” Raimondo pointed. “Right by the coffee machine.”

 

“Nah, you’ll be fine. Finish school. Go to college.”

 

Raimondo laughed.

 

“See you in the school vacations then.”

 

But three weeks into term Babunia died, so they didn’t have to keep up with hospital bills, and nobody ever did call him Stanislaw again.

~*~

 

Over the years, sometimes, Ray would wonder about his friend from the factory, how he turned out, whether he ever married his girl, whether he kept getting into fights, whether he ever finished school. Sometimes he’d see some battered kid who’d laugh and say they were clumsy, and sometimes he’d see a kid with a big mouth who just wouldn’t stop talking and never said anything.

 

_Wonder how Raimondo’s doing._

 

Twenty years later, he figured it out.

 

Technically, Vecchio wasn’t working as a cop anymore - he was some kind of adviser, but it didn’t take much advising to know what went down here.

 

Old bruises, new bruises; she’d gone back to her abuser when the cops couldn’t help.

 

Vecchio knelt next to her body, and hid his face.

 

“You okay, Vecchio?”

 

“Yeah.” He looked up, his eyes very green - wet, almost like he’d been crying, though his face was dry. “Sorry. I knew her. I told her not to go back, but...”

 

“I know. We can’t save everyone.”

 

“It’s the damn men.” Vecchio stood up, and stared at Ray. “Give a little man a little power, and he struts all over the place like he’s God.”

 

Ray’s mouth went dry. He remembered...That was just about the first thing Raimondo ever said to him. _“Give a little man a little power, and he struts all over the place like he’s God."_

 

_Raimondo is Vecchio. Sure, he’s lost his hair, but it’s the same eyes, same nose, same smart mouth..._

 

Vecchio knelt down again, almost like he was praying, and covered the victim’s face.

 

Ray blinked back tears, and looked away.  


**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction, and any actual factory out there which feels it's being unfairly represented has only themselves to blame, whether they are in Blackpool England, Chicagoland or Cornfield Illinois. No hypercritical jackasses who consider themselves bosses were harmed in the making of this story. Strangely enough, both story tellers had the exact same first day at work, in different continents, in different factories. How weird is that?
> 
> (On a more serious note, labour laws have tightened up a lot since the time this story is set, and teenage boys would no longer be employed in such a capacity.)


End file.
